


Just Another Day

by wordsphoenix



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Carolina and Grey are also mentioned, Church mention, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sarge is in one scene so s/o to him, Takes place during the 10 months before season 15, Wash gets alien chicken pox, also minor drama with the chicken pox but it's fine it's always fine they're the reds and blues, and obviously is the comfort part of the hurt/comfort, b/c this is, because of course they're married, day in the life during rvb retirement, fic is Wash and Grif POV divided into times of day, married Grimmons, so minor s15 spoilers, spans one day, which means Tucker is the one being comforted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 17:49:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10995891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsphoenix/pseuds/wordsphoenix
Summary: Things are going well in retirement (or at least they are for a few days at a time between Caboose befriending dinosaurs and Donut burning down waterparks, but Wash isn’t captain of anything anymore, and neither is Grif).





	Just Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a little misleading but really it's not. Mostly fluff. I needed to write it.
> 
> I heavily quote 'Still Want You' by Brandon Flowers later in the story, so special thanks to him for the music.

Early Morning

            “You’re still awake.”

            Tucker was facing away from him, but Wash could tell by the speed of his breathing that he wasn’t asleep. Hadn’t been for a while, or at all, maybe. “Yeah.”

            “You wanna talk about it?”

            “Nah, I’ll… I’m fine.”

            Wash knew he wasn’t fine. There wasn’t anything fine about having death inside your head when death outside it was bad enough. He wanted to reach for him. But Wash could read body language well enough to know he shouldn’t. Tucker would flinch away, get more closed-off than he was before, and all hope of Wash getting through to him would be gone for that day at least.

            ‘I’m fine’ was a lie, a wish, something you said out loud to other people over and over until you felt it was possible enough to start saying it to yourself. To start letting yourself think you could be fine. Wash let Tucker pretend, because he knew what it was like to need to.

            “I’m here if you need me.”

            A smile crept into Tucker’s voice. “I know.”

            That was as much as Wash could hope for.

 

            The sound of covers alerted Grif that Simmons was awake.

            “Can’t sleep?”

            “It’s fine. I’ll be asleep in a minute.” He rolled onto his back.

            “Did you have another nightmare?”

            “It was just a dream.” He shifted again, though, curling up under Grif’s arm.

            “I love you.”

            “Shut up and let me sleep, asshole.” A second later, “I love you, too.”

            Grif passed out smiling.

 

Morning

            “How long have you been up?”

            “I’ve been making breakfast,” Tucker said instead of answering.

            Guilty though it made him feel, Wash had gotten used to slipping in and out of sleep whenever he could get some, even when the person next to him was radiating nervous energy and showing no signs of drowsiness. “I’m sorry I didn’t-”

            “No. No-o-o way, Wash. You are not going to guilt trip yourself because you finally got some sleep.” Tucker turned from the makeshift countertop (they were still having trouble salvaging things from Donut’s latest project-turned-inferno) to give him a look.

            Wash was absolutely still going to guilt trip himself, but Tucker didn’t need to know that. “Is Caboose coming for breakfast?”

            “Fuck if I know. He had a sleepover with Donut last night, so either they’ll show up halfway through breakfast with a carton of gasoline and some matches, or they’re wreaking havoc somewhere else. And don’t change the subject. You deserve sleep.”

            Damnit. Wash kept his voice gentle. “I’ve been getting enough lately. You haven’t.”

            “That isn’t your fault.” The accusation was mostly gone now, replaced by sadness and some of that discomfort, that emptiness, the feeling of having someone in your head until they just weren’t anymore.

            “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

            Tucker turned, this time to set a plate of pancakes on the table. His voice was soft, eyes meeting Wash’s with the warmth they only had when they were alone because warmth was vulnerable and Tucker couldn’t afford to be vulnerable around many people right then. “You have been.”

            Tucker barely had time to set down the plate before Grif’s voice came drifting obnoxiously through the doorway, making him jump. “I smell pancakes!”

            “Jesus, Grif!”

            “Sorry! You know I can smell pancakes from across the… whatever that is now. The street? The pile of ashes that used to be the street?”

            “I think you’d be safe with ‘rubble,’” Simmons said thoughtfully. He was right on Grif’s heels; neither of them had bothered to change out of pajamas.

            Well. Wash and Tucker hadn’t, either, but they’d had to put on shirts, so some effort was still required. And this was their base. “Don’t you have three bags of pancake mix?”

            Grif shrugged. “I don’t know. And that would require me to cook them, and you know my love of food only surpasses my laziness in times of necessity or under very specific circumstances.”

            Tucker glared at him. “You made Simmons a five-course meal last week.”

            “That was because it was-”

            “We know, your anniversary, congratu-fucking-lations, you’ve finally banged, goody for you.”

            Grif stared at him for a long moment. “I think I’d rather have eggs this morning, Simmons. Or French toast. I’m not really in a pancake mood.”

            “When are you not in a- uh- oh- right.” Acknowledging their relationship hadn’t improved Grif and Simmons’ communication skills as much as it had Wash and Tucker’s, but at least he caught on before Grif had to resort to more obvious hints. Simmons trailed after Grif out the door.

            “Great,” Tucker said too quietly for their retreating neighbors to hear, “nobody wants to spend time with the basket case.”

            “You’re not a basket case.”

            Tucker’s eyes went wide. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

            “No, it’s not that. It’s just… I know basket case. I’ve been one. Trust me. You aren’t.”

            “Reassuring, at the very least,” Tucker said, collapsing into the chair adjacent to Wash’s. “I wasn’t in the mood for uninvited company, anyway.”

            Wash reached for his hand on top of the table, brushed his thumb across the back of Tucker’s hand.

            “I forgot the forks.”

            “I’ll get them.”

            “No,” Tucker said, looking up at him. “I mean. Shit. Sorry.”

            “I’m good without forks.”

            Tucker sighed and closed his eyes. “It’s two fucking feet away.”

            “But you don’t want me to leave.”

            “Not really.”

            “So I won’t.”

 

            “I can’t believe we settled for cereal.”

            “Shut up, Simmons. You don’t get to complain about my laziness when you missing social cues got us into this mess in the first place.”

            “What does that mean, me missing social cues? Yeah, I was late on the uptake with Tucker’s mood, but I wasn’t the one who suggested we steal their breakfast in the first place.”

            “It means you got up an hour before me and didn’t eavesdrop on them during your morning jog.” Grif pushed the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch towards him. “Here. Since we’ve already established you’re too bougie to appreciate Booberry.”

            “It turns your milk blue!”

  
            Grif allowed himself a long-suffering sigh. “I know. That’s half the appeal.”

            “What’s the other half?”

            “The marshmallows. Sometimes, Simmons, I wonder why we’re married.”

            “Um, because I said I liked Star Wars the first time we were hanging out and you said marry me and I said sure why not. And I guess because we’re in love. That’s gotta be in the top ten reasons.”

            “It’s reason number six, after you love me, you accept me for who I am, and three more unimportant ones I can’t remember.”

            “They can’t be unimportant if they’re at the top of the list.” Simmons was giving him _the look_.

            Grif rolled his eyes. “Okay okay okay I love you fine. You love me, you accept me for who I am, I’m in love with you-”

            “I’m in love with you, too!”

            “Semantics! But fine. One you’re in love with me two you accept me for who I am three I’m in love with you four I fell in love ten seconds before we met and if that isn’t fate I don’t know what is five you’re fucking adorable six you said you liked Star Wars seven the thought of not seeing you for more than twenty-four hours makes me want to fling myself off a cliff eight the waterpark was totally your idea nine the things you said that day at the temple ten you’re in love with me.”

            “Half of those things didn’t happen until after we were married. And me being in love with you is on there twice.”

            “It wouldn’t have been if you didn’t insist on me changing the first point.”

            “But why would me loving you be more important than me being in love with you?”

            “Because as long as you’re willing to keep me I don’t give a single fuck whether or not you look at me like I make the sun rise.”

            Simmons pushed the cereal away and leaned forward. “Bullshit. You love it when I look at you like that.”

            Grif gave in and made eye contact. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t love you any less if you didn’t.”

            Simmons was looking at Grif like he made the sun rise. “I do, though.”

            “I know. It’s exhausting. Don’t remind me.” Grif kissed him anyway.

 

Midday

            “When are we gonna go back?” Tucker was sitting on the very edge of the rock, elbows on his knees, staring out at the water and probably not really seeing it.

            “I don’t know. Whenever you’re ready. I can’t say I’m not enjoying the vacation, but I understand…” Wash didn’t, not really, but he could try.

            “Yeah. I’m being a shitty dad right now.”

            Wash sighed. “It’s okay to need help.”

            “No, Wash. It’s not. That’s the point of having kids. Even when you’re half out of your mind with grief they still come first.”

            “I didn’t mean-”

            “No, I know. God. I’m sorry.” Tucker put his head in his hands.

            “You shouldn’t have to apologize for being a mess.”

            Tucker looked up to stare at him. “That might be the best cliché-but-been-there advice you’ve ever given me.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah. Because it’s disappointing but also sort of right.”

            Wash smiled. “I didn’t peg you for someone who was disappointed not to have to take the blame.”

            “No. That’d be you, I guess.” Tucker laughed.

            “Not anymore. Retirement.”

            Tucker gave him a knowing look. “You’re bored.”

            “Maybe a little. But as long as I’m with you I don’t mind.”

            “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find something for you to do wherever we end up. Staying near the bigger space stations in case the government needs to exploit my kid for something has to have some advantages.”

            “You know, you don’t have to go along with what they say. You’re an intergalactic celebrity, now. One hint of the word ‘coercion’ and they’ll be sending you into the sunset with a pelican and a three-billion credit severance package.”

            “I would’ve angled for that offer a long time ago if this stupid sword didn’t make me feel obligated. To fulfill my duty to the universe or whatever. And I’d say fuck it for Junior’s sake, but he likes it. Likes helping people and learning about the half of his ancestry that isn’t dominated by the military-industrial complex. I wouldn’t want to take that away from him.”

            “Even if the only way to do it is through the military-industrial complex?”

            The ghost of a smile flitted across Tucker’s face. “I don’t see you complaining, Colonel Washington.”

            “That’s retired Colonel Washington to you.”

            “Ugh. That makes you sound like an old man. It’s almost as bad as the beard.” Tucker was really smiling, then, the one that said ‘I dare you to defend this stupid thing you insist on keeping on your face.’ His head lolled to the side a little, and he lifted a hand to lightly stroke Wash’s cheek. When he hit the beard Tucker’s smile turned into a grimace.

            “I thought you liked my beard.”

            Tucker gave him a significant look and glanced away. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. It’s your face.”

            Wash sighed, but didn’t press the issue. He had a feeling Tucker wasn’t in the mood to get into an argument about the beard he was _definitely keeping_ just then. “What did you want to do today?”

            “Apart from convincing you to shave? Oh, I don’t know. Plan revenge for that shit Grif and Caboose pulled last week, maybe take a cue from the bastard in question and nap. And you, obviously.”

            Wash rolled his eyes. “Obviously.” He held his arms open; Tucker leaned back against his chest. “You should try to get some sleep.”

            “I’m pretty tired. Some combination of sunlight and you spooning me, probably.”

            “Probably,” Wash agreed.

            Within five minutes Tucker was passed out on his chest. Wash leaned back on the rock, happy to see him finally getting some rest.

 

            “Look at those two,” Grif said. “Simmons, sometimes I worry our romance is dead.”

            “You actually did make a five-course meal for me last week, though. That was amazing. So I guess if you fearing our romance is dead encourages you to make romantic gestures-”

            “Aaaand you ruined it.”

            “God damnit!”

            “It’s not my fault you can’t lie to me, Simmons.” Grif turned to him and threw up a hand to land on Simmons’s shoulder. “I guess technically it’s not your fault either, but you don’t really benefit so I’m sorry anyway.”

            “I don’t want your pity. Unless that’s what gets you to keep making up awesome dates. Because if it is, yes, I do want your pity. My life is miserable and only you can fix it.”

            “I think that’s a little much. I mean, coincides pretty well with what you like in bed, but-”

            “Hey, lovebirds! Do you mind? I’m not trying to rewrite my nightmares!” Sarge was standing a few feet away, working on his latest contraption. Grif would have preferred not to risk getting sucked into helping him, but they had to pass Sarge to make it back to base for lunch.

            “Sorry, sir!”

            “Kiss ass.”

            “I am perfectly happy with the zombie apocalypse playing out to its inevitable conclusion in a slightly different way each time. No need to mess that up,” grumbled Sarge.

            “Is it really a nightmare if you still get a shotgun, sir?”

            “Simmons! You should know better! I have a shotgun in my every nightmare, daydream, and waking moment. Especially when Grif is involved. God damnit! You’ve done it again, Grif! You’re ruining your ruining my nightmares!”

            Simmons shot him a skeptical look, the one that had become increasingly common over the course of their time under Sarge. The one Grif loved because it meant his being a bad influence on Simmons had paid off. “Sarge? I don’t think that’s-”

            “Just because we’re retired doesn’t mean you don’t have to call me ‘sir.’”

            “Oh, I think that’s _exactly_ what it means,” Grif interjected.

            “You mean ‘I think that’s exactly what it means, sir!’ And Simmons!”

            Simmons sighed. “Yes, sir?”

            “Initiate Operation Grif!”

            “Which one, sir?” Simmons sounded like he had seen one too many Operation Grifs. Grif was inclined to agree, but he wasn’t about to say that midway through another of Sarge’s authority-complex relapses.

            “The one where you help me imagine his gruesome death so I can purge my thoughts of things that aren’t Grif being destroyed!”

            “Um, Sarge?”

            “What is it now, Simmons?”

            “I don’t think I can dooooo that.” He sounded... like... nonchalant. And _resistant_.

            Grif stared.

            “Are you disobeying a direct order?” Sarge's voice was doing that slightly-lower-than-usual growling thing it did when he was in a bad enough mood to actually shoot Grif. Not a good sign. Well. Maybe not a good sign. If it made Simmons rebellious-

            “No. Like Grif said, technically we’re retired, and now that we’ve finally gotten together I don’t really feel comfortable with Operation Grif anymore.”

            It was like _Christmas_. “Oh my God, did you just disobey Sarge for me? That is so hot. And so gross that I’m turned on by that Simmons I’M CONFLICTED.”

            “Simmons! Get your idiot husband out of here!”

            “Yes, sir. What was that you said about pity in bed, Grif?”

            “SIMMONS!” Sarge and Grif yelled at exactly the time, in completely different tones.

            “Riiiight. We’re going now.” Simmons dragged Grif off towards base, Sarge’s yells of ‘where’s Donut when you need him’ drifting into the background as he took in Grif’s conflicted expression.

            “I’m conflicted, Simmons. Conflicted.” He could not stress that enough.

            Simmons smiled. “I can think of a few ways to help you with that.”

            “So hot SO GROSS SIMMONS PLEASE!”

 

Afternoon

            "What time is it?"

            "Probably about three in the afternoon."

            Tucker jerked upright, stopped short by the arm Wash had wrapped around him. Wash let go. "Dude," Tucker said, "have you seriously been laying on a rock for three hours? Because that will seriously fuck up your back."

            "It's fine. I'm used to it."

            Tucker turned to give him a disbelieving look. "After spending months with a pillowtop mattress?"

            "Yeah," Wash said, totally not in his guilty voice. The sudden shift in position had his back screaming in protest, but he'd be damned if he let Tucker see it.

            Tucker sighed. "If I'm awake enough to have sex in a few hours, and if you can still, you know, move, you're still taking something for that."

            "My ibuprofen tolerance is so high I'd have to overdose for it to work."

            "Oh, I didn't mean ibuprofen. I was thinking something more effective."

            Wash sighed. "I am not taking glowing mushrooms for nonexistent back pain. That would probably just make it worse."

            "I wasn't necessarily suggesting shrooms. I think Grey left us some of the good stuff-"

            "Aaaand I'm also not getting high on surgical-grade pain meds."

            Tucker reached up to rub his face in a ‘this is typical Wash but I’ll still never want to be used to it’ kinda way. "Is there a particular reason you insist on acting like the upstanding CO even though that's the exact opposite of what we're supposed to be doing here?"

            "I didn't know you were so starved for entertainment. I could just invite Donut over."

            "God, no. No thanks. Please. Really. I'm okay."

            Wash smirked.

            "Just because you have a point- come on." Tucker got to his feet and held out a hand for Wash. "We'd better go make sure Caboose hasn't blown anything up while we were asleep."

            Wash tried to stand and found he couldn't. "Fuck."

            Tucker shook his head. "Pillowtop mattress, Wash. I know you can bench like ten of me, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have woken up. It would've taken six seconds." When Wash just stared at him, Tucker asked, "Can you move?"

            "No not really."

            Tucker sighed. "Do you want me to go get drugs or am I moving you now?"

            "I don't want any drugs."

            "Tell me if I hurt you, then." Tucker moved in for a princess-carry.

            The strain of sitting upright made everything hurt before Tucker even touched him, but Wash wasn't about to let him know that. "What would I do without you?"

            "I'm not sure." Tucker didn't seem to have trouble lifting him. Wash was having a hard time concentrating on anything but his death grip on Tucker's neck and the excruciating pain he was in. Tucker's voice pulled him back from that a little. "Hey, are you okay?"

            Wash managed to focus on his concerned expression and tried for nonchalance. "I'm fine."

            "If I start walking, are you going to scream? Because that's okay, but you're going to have to warn me first."

            "Tucker?"

            "Yeah."

            "Just fucking move."

            "Huh. Didn't think I'd be hearing that today."

            "Are you trying to distract me?"

            "Is it working?"

            "Maybe a little. But I'm still not taking meds."

            "What about alcohol? That's how they did it in the 1800s, right?"

            "Did you just change the subject from us having sex to ancient medical history?"

            "I guess. But look, it worked, we're here," and he slid Wash into bed.

            "Jesus!"

            "Sorry."

            "No, it's... it would've hurt more if you warned me."

            "I figured. You want a blanket?"

            "No I'm... actually, yeah." Wash was suddenly freezing, probably a result of moving from warm sunlight into the shadowy base.

            "Here." Tucker pulled a blanket over him with painstaking care. When Wash was as tucked-in as he could be without getting jostled, Tucker raised a hand to his forehead. "Shit. I think you have a fever."

            Despite the blanket, Wash was shivering. So he probably did have a fever. "Do you think it's... Grey's..."

            Instant recognition dawned on Tucker’s face. "Will you be okay for two minutes while I go get it? Simmons had it last."

            Wash nodded.

            Tucker darted out of the room and returned a few minutes later, carrying the massive encyclopedia of native plants Grey had given them when they arrived. Her cheerful 'don't poison yourselves' had felt a lot more significant after the glowing mushroom incident, which was when they first started using it.

            After flipping back and forth from the index to the table of contents a few times, Tucker started reading aloud a list of symptoms. Wash was pretty sure the burning sensation ripping through his back, and the fever, or the chills, or the disorientation or whatever it was, he was pretty sure those symptoms were right.

            "Can I give you the drug that's supposed to flush this parasitic living rock shit out of your system?"

            Wash blinked. "Yes please."

            "Okay. Someone should be up in a minute to help."

            "Good." Wash thought it was good. He couldn't remember. Did he want help? Maybe he should ask Tucker.

            But that sounded too hard. It was nicer to just lay here.

            Something important was bothering him, though. What was it? "Tucker?"

            Wash could hear the concern in his voice even if he couldn’t remember why Tucker should be concerned. "Yeah?"

            "It's... important..." No! He had to tell Tucker before he went to sleep. "Something about... you touching..."

            "Oh! It was only on the green part of the rock, so you got the worst of it. I'll take some meds anyway just to be safe."

            "Good." Wash was feeling very tired.

            "I get to take care of you for a change.” It was soft. Probably Wash wasn't supposed to hear it.

            It was the last thing he heard before he passed out.

 

            “Tucker came by to get the poisonous plant book.”

            “Fuck. Wash?”

            “Yep. You’d think after all this time Caboose would have finally gotten into something…”

            “No shit. Is he alright?”

            “We’re going to find out in about ten seconds.” Simmons raised his voice to call out before he hit the stairs. “Tucker?”

            “He’s fine,” Tucker’s voice sounded hoarse. Tired. Grif didn’t like it. When they made it to the door Tucker was waiting for them. “You have the meds?” Tucker looked… not good.

            “Yeah.” Simmons stepped into the room, got the right drug out of the kit, and passed it to Tucker. Simmons took it back after a second because Tucker’s hands were shaking. “I got it. Grif, can you make one for him, too?”

            “Sure.”

            “I didn’t really come in contact with it. I feel fine.”

            Grif shook his head and accepted the small bottle from Simmons. “You should take some anyway, though. Let us make an intelligent decision for once in our goddamned lives.”

            Tucker laughed. “Good point.” He held out his arm obligingly, and Grif used his military training for something important. In retirement. Again.

            “You’d think this would have come in handy while we were still active duty.”

            Simmons laughed. “Like you said, it’s us. The intelligence wasn’t going to kick in until it became ironic.” He stood back and glanced between Tucker and Wash. “Are you guys gonna be okay?”

            Tucker looked like he didn’t feel comfortable with the question. Which, Grif thought, made a lot of sense. He was an absolute fucking mess every time Simmons got hurt. “Probably?”

            “We’ll be around,” said Grif, because, yeah, he was retired, and yeah, shit was a pain in the ass, but no, he was not about to be that asshole guy. “I wanted to raid your fridge, anyway. See if there’s anything decent I can make in a kitchen that isn’t missing half the staple ingredients from Donut’s experimental cooking.”

            “Have at it, man. As long as you and Simmons put everything back where you found it.”

            “What makes you think I’m helping?” Simmons asked skeptically.

            “He’ll drag you back here eventually. And if that place isn’t spotless when you leave, I’m going to kill him.”

            “Wow, Tucker,” Grif said, making his way to the door. “Looks like Wash is rubbing off on you.”

            “That was an obvious setup, but I guess I’ll humor you. Bow chicka bow wow.”

            “Yell if you need anything, man,” Simmons said.

            “I won’t, but sure.”

            Once they were out in the hallway, Simmons turned to Grif. “You know, if you’re ever out for as long as you were that time Sarge did surgery on us, I’ll kill you myself, right?”

            “The feeling’s mutual, babe.”

            Simmons held his hand the rest of the way down the stairs.

 

Evening

            Wash forced his eyes open. He’d known Tucker was there- he could feel Tucker was there- but his mind was still a little hazy. Better to be sure. "Can you explain to me why the fuck we're tag teaming naps?"

            "Shitty coincidence, maybe?" Tucker was sitting in a chair next to the bed.

            Grif was leaning in the doorway, looking bored. "Congratulations, you survived this planet's version of shingles, I'll be downstairs if you need me."

            "Thanks," Tucker said with unexpected sincerity as Grif waved a hand. He turned back to Wash. "How do you feel?"

            "Fine. Sore and tired, but nothing like before." Wash wasn't feeling great. A little fatigue was leaps and bounds better than whatever the fuck had been going on earlier, though. "Did you say something about a poisonous _rock_?"

            "Yep. It 'secretes a toxic substance that produces effects similar to the human chicken pox virus in adults.' We gave you the one that neutralizes rock poison. You're gonna be fine."

            Wash huffed an achy laugh. "Sometimes I wonder what our lives would be like if we weren't on a planet covered in poisonous rocks."

            "Yeah, but it was still pretty generous of Chorus to give us an entire planet. It's not their fault we're idiots."

            Wash smiled. "Leave it to the Reds and Blues to accidentally come in contact with the most dangerous things in a twenty-mile radius."

            "This isn't as bad as that stupid dinosaur, thank God." Tucker was looking at him with a familiar expression on his face.

            It was the look a person had when someone they loved had just done something really really stupid. Something reckless. Like taking on half an army of guards with nothing but a sword and too many armor enhancements.

            So, Wash knew the feeling. "Hey," Wash said, reaching out towards Tucker. He grimaced and froze. "Sorry, am I still-"

            "Nope. Cured."

            Wash put his hand on Tucker's knee. "I'm fine."

            Tucker met his eyes, frowned, and glanced away. "We really need to pay more attention to shit. Remind me again why she didn't just load that stuff into our datapads?"

            "I'm pretty sure there's a copy in there, too- you know, in case the base burns down-" that got Tucker to smile and roll his eyes, "-but, like you said, we're idiots, so she probably didn’t trust us putting it in just one place."

            “Remind me to thank Donut for managing not to torch the thing that saved you just now.”

            “Hey.” Wash’s tone got Tucker to look up. “I’m okay, Tucker.”

            “I know.” Wash could hear ‘but you almost weren’t.’

            So he wriggled to the other side of the bed, pain be damned, and threw the covers back for Tucker.

            “The naps continue,” Tucker said as he slipped in beside Wash.

            “I recall you saying more than once that all you wanted was to spend the day in bed with your insanely hot ex-freelancer boyfriend.”

            Wash could hear his eye-roll. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind. Is your back okay, or am I the little spoon again?”

            “Oh, no, it’s absolutely still fucked up.”

            “Sucks, but I don’t mind the little spoon part.” Tucker snuggled into his chest.

 

            Grif whistled his way through the Star Wars soundtrack as he moved around the half-destroyed kitchen. Simmons was in and out, grabbing things from their kitchen when Grif needed them and taking extended breaks from his unofficial sous chef position to keep Sarge from doing anything monumentally stupid. No one had seen Donut or Caboose all day, but Grif figured they’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

            He added some spice to the soup and tasted it again. It just needed time. Grif leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. All of them needed time after the shit they’d seen. Some more than others. The look on Tucker’s face had told Grif all he needed to know about that. Most of the time Tucker was better at hiding it; he’d done a hell of a good job convincing them he hated Church, longstanding friendship or not. It wasn’t until something happened that it became clear how much he cared. A lot of things around there were like that. They had changed, sure, but at their cores they were still the same ragtag band of idiots that had sat around bickering in Blood Gulch. Something had to happen to threaten Tucker’s shameless playboy image, just like something had to happen to get in the way of Grif’s inability to display concern for almost anything.

            That day it had been Wash. Other days it was harder to see, because Tucker hadn’t been in the habit of shoving his tongue down Church’s throat in full view of the entire Chorus army.

            All of their relationships with Church had been complicated. Tucker’s was maybe the most complicated- short of Carolina, but she’d dealt with the same shit before. So had Wash. It was all new to Tucker. And to have had Church in his head when it happened-

            Grif shuddered. Best not to dwell on that. Tucker was getting better, even if he wasn’t great. All they could do now was give it time.

            Simmons appeared in the doorway. “Is the soup done?”

            “Almost. It was one of the only things my mom ever made Kai and me growing up, and damn, she was good at it.”

            Simmons crossed the kitchen and opened the lid to take a whiff. “Mmm. Are you sure it’s not done now?”

            “Five more minutes, angel dick.”

            Simmons glanced up at him through narrowed eyes and returned the lid to its proper place. “I can never tell if your weird terms of endearment are complimentary or not.”

            “I’m going to do something you hate and answer your question with a question because I like proving points and I’m trying to distract you so you don’t stick a spoon in that soup and disrupt the equilibrium of the pot.”

            Simmons sighed and placed a hand on the counter to Grif’s left, leaning partly in his space but keeping the necessary distance in case Grif’s answer pissed him off and he felt the need to back away in annoyance.

            “Are we married?”

            Simmons smirked. “Last time I checked.”

            “Then I think it’s safe to assume it was a compliment.”

            Simmons put his other hand on the counter, practically pinning Grif there. “You answered without asking a real question, anyway.”

            Grif shrugged.

            Simmons buried his face in Grif’s neck and inhaled. “Sometimes I can’t tell if I like your devil-may-care attitude better than your except-for-me one.”

            Grif laughed. “Oh, you definitely prefer the second one.”

            “Really?” Simmons trailed kisses down his neck and back again, pausing to lick up to Grif’s ear.

            Grif bit back a moan and sighed instead. “You are not ruining my soup.”

            “I think it’ll be-”

            Grif ducked out of his arms and turned the burner off. “It’s ready now.”

            Simmons came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Grif. Not tight enough to restrict his soup-fixing abilities, though. “If you’d taken it off before, we could have already-”

            “Give me a second, Simmons.” Grif set the pot on the counter, reached for a clean spoon, and dipped it into the pot, turning slightly to make sure he didn’t miss Simmons’s mouth.

            Simmons’s eyes dropped shut. “Fuck, that’s good.”

            “Told you. Now, I have two patients to feed. After that, I don’t care how much you distract me.”

            “It’ll be a lot. Because you’ve just reminded me that you can cook again.”

            Grif laughed. “Whatever boats your float, robot husband.”

            “Like, there! Was that a compliment?” Simmons looked like he doubted.

            Grif patiently set aside the bowls of soup and leaned in to kiss him slowly, drawing it out in a way meant to erase all doubt. “I’ll abbreviate it to ‘husband’ next time if you’d like that better.”

            Simmons made a noise that promised Grif he was definitely going to be very distracted later. “Do you need any help with that?”

            “Nah, I got it. See you in a minute.” Then, once he’d made it halfway out the door, Grif added, “Husband.”

            “I’ll never get tired of hearing that,” Simmons muttered under his breath.

            Knowing Simmons probably hadn’t meant him to hear, and knowing Simmons’s superhuman hearing would ensure he heard Grif, Grif promised, “I’ll never get tired of saying it.”

 

Night

            “Do you think there’s too much glitter?”

            “Commander Pop ‘N’ Fresh, how could you even say that?”

            “You’re right, Caboose. I’m overlooking the most fundamental rule of crafting: there’s no such thing as too much glitter.”

            “That’s the spirit!”

 

Late Night

            “Fuck.”

            “Can’t sleep?”

            “Nope.” Tucker popped his lips on the ‘p’ for emphasis.

            “Neither can I.”

            “You’re not sitting up, though. So either your back’s still fucked or you want to bottom. Or, like, not do any work, which I totally get, because you’re probably going to lie to me about your back because I’m just that good in bed. Good enough to be worth it. Fuck, I’m tired.”

            “Do you want me to sing you to sleep?”

            Silence, covers shifting, silence, more silence. Then, “Are you being serious?”

            “My voice is pretty good. I was better than any of the other freelancers, anyway.”

            Tucker’s voice was closer; he was propped on his side, free hand resting on Wash’s shoulder. “How’d you figure that out?”

            Wash smiled. “Freelancer karaoke night.”

            “Oh, no. Like, lightish-aqua-colored oh, no.”

            “Oh yes. I don’t think I’ve ever heard ‘Barbie Girl’ sung as a duet in such wildly different keys.”

            Tucker raised his eyebrows. He was beautiful, even when Wash couldn’t fully see him, lit as he was by filtered moonlight and the glow of their thankfully-battery-operated alarm clock (the electricity hadn't been consistent since the fire). “The two parts in that song already seem pretty far apart musically.”

            “Okay, let me rephrase. I don’t think I’ve ever heard ‘Barbie Girl’ sung as a duet with two people who landed in such wildly different places on the tone-deafness spectrum.”

            “So York had the second-best voice in Project Freelancer?”

            “I always thought so.”

            Tucker looked at him for a second. It was the fond one Wash loved. “You said something about singing to me?”

            Wash cleared his throat. “ _Everyone’s got a combination if you put in the time. The numbers come like a revelation- you show me yours, I’ll show you mine. And when you’re down, girl you got to know this, nobody else is in your room, we’ll make it through. The time is passing by_ -”

            Tucker cut him off with a kiss. “Never pegged you for a Flowers kinda guy.”

            Wash shrugged. “Got bored in training once. ‘David Washington’ isn’t really the most popular stage name, so that’s where we landed.”

            “Right. Florida. But, um, you were saying… I still want you.”

            Wash smiled and picked up the chorus. “ _Crime is on the rise, I still want you. Climate change and debt, I still want you. Nuclear distress, I still want you. The earth is heatin’ up, I still want you. Hurricanes and floods, I still want you even more than I did before_.”

            Tucker kissed him again. “You’ve got a beautiful voice.”

            “This song reminds me of you.”

            “Which part? The disasters?”

            “I was thinking the beginning. And, the, uh, _I used to think that I knew the big time before you came around_. And maybe _peace of mind is a lot to ask for these silly days but we’ve got it made_.”

            “So, the whole song, then?” Tucker kissed him before he could reply, only pulling back when Wash was properly out of breath.

            He inhaled and kept singing. “ _There’s somethin’ on the line that’s hard for me to show. There’s somethin’ you should know_.”

            It was the softest smile Tucker ever gave him. Maybe the softest one Tucker had. “I already know you love me.”

            “I still want to tell you, though.”

            “So tell me.”

            “I love you.”

            This was the longest kiss yet. The kind that Tucker kept going so he could trace the entire inside of his mouth twice. The kind that made it feel like if he pulled away Wash wouldn’t be able to breathe at all anymore instead of the other way around. Finally, Tucker pulled back. “I love you, too.” But he was crying.

            “I’m sorry.”

            Tucker broke eye contact, head falling onto Wash’s shoulder. “It just fucking hurts.”

            “I know.”

            “When is it going to stop hurting?”

            “I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you it’ll hurt less.”

            “It’s a good thing I trust you, because your advice would be shit otherwise.”

            “I think that’s kind of the point of advice.”

            “Shut up." He wrapped his arm around Wash's waist, careful not to press too tight into his still-aching side, and took a breath. "I love you, Wash.”

            “I love you, too, Tucker.” Wash just held him for awhile.

 

            “Motherfucker.”

            “Wow.”

            Grif and Simmons were standing at the edge of the burned-out waterpark, surveying the damage.

            “How did they set it on fire _again_?”

            “It didn’t seem scientifically possible the first time, let alone a second time.”

            Grif bent down to pick up a handful of glitter from a faintly smoking pile of the stuff. “Where’d they even get this? Grey said we weren’t allowed anymore glitter after the last shipment, and I could swear Donut exhausted the supply with his last project.”

            Simmons shook his head. “Knowing Donut, it could have come from anywhere.”

            “He used glue, Simmons. Military glue. It can’t be recycled.”

            “No. But he might have used glue again,” Simmons said, helpfully, and Grif dumped the glitter.

            “Good point.” He brushed off the remaining flecks on his pants and shot another look across the sparkling wreckage. “Simmons?”

            “Mmm, honey bunches of ass?”

            Grif grinned a little. “You’re getting there. Off topic, though. I was gonna ask if you wanted to go home.”

            “Fuck yeah, I want to go home. It wasn’t our turn to investigate local explosions, anyway. Let Carolina deal with this shit.”

            “Another good point. Reason number eleven why I married you.”

            “I thought me being smart was number ten.”

            “Number ten was you being in love with me.”

            “Yeah. And?”

            Grif stared. “You never cease to amaze me.”

            “That’s the plan. Can we go back to bed now?”

            “Fuck, yeah, let’s go back to bed. Almost dying in glitter-related explosions is exhausting.”

            “So is being a good husband.”

            “Was that self-referential or another compliment?”

            “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't understand what Donut and Caboose do in their free time any better than anyone else does, so trust your imagination I guess.


End file.
